The Florida Vacay- Part 1
Our trip began when Fats and I hopped in the MINI bright at early at 7:30 am. Poor Sona was packed to the gills with skimpy bikinis (of which Fats had at least 13), beach towels, sunscreen, $100 worth of econo-sized gallons of booze (procured at Sam's because of their DEEP DISCOUNTS!) and plenty of Capri Suns, known as TRACKS around these here parts because of their highly addictive properties.
During our five state, 1400 mile cross country tour, we saw numerous things that alarmed us. Do you people have any idea how many southern rednecks in monster trucks place decals on their rear windows of the American flag? I'm not talking a little four inch sticker, folks. I'm talking a life sized rendition of a bald eagle grasping the stars and stripes (or, in one instance, the Confederate flag) in its large talons whilst glaring menacingly at passers by. I'm sorry, but I just don't believe that anyone can love America, let alone bald eagles, THAT MUCH. It's just not possible. I personally would have chosen a life sized decal of Brad Pitt or Michael Jackson, but that's just me. Fats and I entertained ourselves by bantering back and forth on many a topic, the most notable of which includes transvestites, children with mullets ("preschool in the front, playground in the back"), and getting into your boyfriend's roommate's bed at 3am- NAKED.
The highlight of our roadtrip was the tunnel we got to drive through! Shut up, we're from Texas, there ARE NO TUNNELS HERE.
As Fats and I made the 9 hour journey together, it became quite obvious that neither one of us has matured one iota during our 12 long years of friendship. We still think and act like 13-year-olds, and we still amuse the hell out of ourselves. The purpose of our trip was to visit our fellow lesbian, Nightie, whom I have known for a whopping FIFTEEN YEARS. Nightie recently obtained her Masters degree in NERD and moved to Fort Walton Beach- our final destination. We spent the week visiting her and her P-I-M-P boyfriend, whom we will refer to as Michael Buble Lover, or MBL for short. After our initial meet 'n greet, Fats and I had to take time out to teach MBL and Nightie all about the Shocker. Shockingly enough, MBL needed little instruction.
Once we settled in, we hit the beach and never looked back. I don't think I wore a single pair of underwear ALL WEEK (now if that doesn't get Scotty hot in the pants, then I don't know what will). We LIVED in our bikinis, and I was even persuaded to procure an additional slutsuit, of the more scandalous variety, which, according to Megan's mom, merely made my tits look long. That was $80.00 well spent if you ask me.
Unfortunately for me and my expensive slutsuit (which obviously was NOT QUITE SLUTTY ENOUGH), there was a considerable LACK of sand-in-places-that-sand-should-never-go beach activities. That's right, there was no schlong surfing or snatch snorkling to speak of. This, I fear, is nothing less than a tragedy. How is it possible for a fairly attractive, witty, scantily clad, semi-intoxicated young woman to NOT find someone to make out with on the beaches of sunny Florida? Well, to borrow a quote from myself as stated in Austin a month ago, "I couldn't get laid in this city if I stood in the street naked." There are far too many skinny, tan, barely legal blondes in Florida for me to even stand a chance. That is, of course, except with MIKE. Mike, some random dude from Arkansas who approached me at a local bar, seemed nice enough. Sure, he was somewhat, shall we say, DENSE. Hell, who am I kidding, the guy was borderline retarded but at least he was INTO ME. Well he WAS, until he re-approached us for the second time, only to be met with Fats rolling here eyes into the back of her head and Nightie heavily sighing, "Oh, LORD!" Suffice it to say, Mike left, never to return, along with my last remaining hope of ever getting laid again. THANKS, LADIES. In any event, MBL and Mike got friendly while us three ladies were bonding in the restroom, and MBL procured his digits. FANFUCKINGTASTIC- the only one among us to score a guy's phone number all week was THE GUY.
(Shocking Fort Walton Beach)
The most action I saw all weekend was that one time when Fats and I were galavanting in the pocean (short for pussy-ocean, duly named because of the pansy ass waves it was tossing our way) and a low flying, doorless military helicopter-type aircraft passed by overhead. Fats and I began enthusiastically flashing the shocker in the direction of the young men who standing in the doorway of said aircraft, and we became unnecessarily giddy when they began to wave back. It was at this precise moment that the pocean decided to throw a doozy in our general direction, thus knocking us over, forcing us to inhale mass quantities of salt water and algae, and- yes, you guessed it- exposing Fats' left nipple to the entire Gulf coast. We took it as a compliment that the aircraft immediately turned around and flew back over us in hopes of getting a better glimpse of the two stupid Texans who got bitch slapped by the ocean while practicing their moves for the next Girls Gone Wild auditions.
To be continued...
The fact that I have yet to announce my impending engagement should have been your first clue that the date went less-than-ideally. I suppose that if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit that the date COULD have gone worse. But I think it's safe to say that my first AND LAST blind date experience was pretty much a total disaster.
Let's count the ways in which this date was a complete catastrophe.
1) Dude looked nothing like how he was described to me. Then again, if I were balding, overweight, jobless and socially inept, I might consider portraying myself as someone else, too.
2) Dude takes me to a lounge in the Montrose area for drinks. Not having been to this particular establishment, there was no way that I would have known that "lounge" is Montrosian for "dimly lit two story house with a lot of strategically placed cushy furniture hidden away in dark corners while loud music blares from the speakers in order to drown out the moans of passion emitting from the depths of the nearest sofa." This place is the wet dream of every child predator and date rapist in the city.
3) When I asked for a beer, dude returns with a long island iced tea. I'm not really sure what part of the word SHINER sounds like VODKA, TEQUILA, RUM and/or GIN, but it became quite apparent to me later why getting me completely fucking inebriated was part of dude's master plan.
4) Dude's in love with Christina Aguilera. CHRISTINA. FUCKING. AGUILERA.
5) After about two hours of polite conversation, dude propositions me to go with him to a swinger's club. A CLUB WHERE PEOPLE EXCHANGE SEXUAL PARTNERS, JUST AS THE EARLY AMERICAN SETTLERS EXCHANGED FUR PELLETS FOR MAIZE. Sorry, but my kernels aren't for sale, nor do I want to touch a stranger's fur pellet, unless said stranger is a stripper named TJ with a cock sock that hangs down to his knees. Then, and only then, will I barter away my kernels along with my last shred of dignity. (And don't get all judgemental and pretend that YOU wouldn't, you fucking prudes.)
In short, I hightailed it outta there faster than a dope fiend who spots a rock of crack in the snow. FUCK BLIND DATES!
Caption This, Bitches!
Because I am a hopeless procrastinator, and because I have YET to upload all of the Florida pics or finish writing the post, and because I hate my life, hate my job, and hate all members of the opposite sex, THIS is what you get for today.
I found this photo through a Google image search of "spelunk". My fingers are twitching in anticipation...
2. I have a date tonight for the first time in... oh, let's see... like 5 years.
3.I just shaved parts of my body that I didn't even know had hair.
4. I'm really fucking nervous.
5. So nervous, in fact, that I just ate an entire tub of cotton candy.
6. It's called FLAVA PUFF, but I like to refer to it as FLAVA FLAAAAAAAAAAAAV!
7. Wish me luck.
8. That is all.
The three lesbians reunite... and it feels so gooooooooood.
Shocking the East Coast!
Well, you'd probably be WRONG.
Tomorrow I'm leaving for sunny Florida to hang out with two of my bestest high school friends. We were so inseparable throughout high school that people used to call us the Three Lesbians. Oh, who am I kidding? People still call us that. Too bad THOSE people won't be spending five days surrounded by beach, booze, bikinis and BOYS. Bitches.
If you're lucky, I might find time to update while I'm there. If you're REALLY lucky, I might not. And if the Gods of Luck are shining their favor down upon you, I might never return. Okay, that has nothing to do with the Gods of Luck, but everything to do with whether they have any nude beaches in Florida. I'm just sayin'.
You can rest assured that I will represent the Dirty Souf and the Shocker while I'm gone. Hell, I did a pretty fair job of shockin' the homies while at a wedding in Fort Worth this past weekend.
Yes, that's my hand in the background. Yes, I was ducking and hiding my face because I have no idea who any of the fags in this picture are, other than the two bridesmaids up front whom I vaguely knew in college. Yes, I am purposely shocking right next to that blonde bitch's face because she was the maid of honor and talked on her cell phone ALL. NIGHT. LONG. And also because her Paris Hilton hair extensions were really getting on my last fucking nerve. Oh, and yes, I stalked her myspace page for pictures of the wedding, hoping one would arise with the Shock Sign, and I was not let down. The caption on this photo read, "Apparently you throw up the shocker at weddings these days". MISSION SHOCKCOMPLISHED.
Now hang up the god damn phone.